We pile our things on shelves
in closets
inside memory books.
We carefully place them, then dust them. We hold them.
Then when they become too many, we pack them up in bins and cardboard, ready for the day we have a moment free or space to spread them out again.
Every moment in our life presents another way to gain more things.
Soon, we run out of wall space, desk space, but our life keeps moving past and around more things.
These things aren’t things to us though. They are like catching moments as they spin past us. And when we look at it, touch it, we feel that same way again. We look at them and remember a feeling, like hope or love. They tell stories about us, about the part that’s inside of us, what we think like and where we’ve been.
It’s comforting to know that moment truly happened… we like to look and remember. Even to remember the sadness sometimes, or to feel again the hope. Sometimes we like to feel again. Our memory wants to hold on and then be able to let go as we place it back in the box.
It’s healing to have representations of our joy, grief, our healing. All around us. Our life, displayed in collections.
Without them, what if we forget? But with them, what if it becomes too much, and we no longer are one who has posessions, but the person being owned by things?
